


Secret Keeper

by Anonymous



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Secretary: one entrusted with the secrets or confidences of a superior.When an important mission flops due to an information leak within the Search Bloc, Carrillo pinpoints the most likely suspect: his secretary and lover. He's furious with himself for being vulnerable and determined to treat this as he would any other interrogation.
Relationships: Horacio Carrillo/Reader, Horacio Carrillo/You
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

It’s late when you hear the pounding at your door. You know what it is. Who it is. You haven’t exactly been expecting them. Actually you’ve been hoping that Colonel Carrillo was able to detect the truth in your voice, in the touch of your fingers on his closed fist, when he interviewed you earlier today. There’s a cracking sound as your door falls open and you feel your stomach drop. _Oh, God, what are they going to do to me?_

***

Colonel Horacio Carrillo is an honest man. Incorruptible. He believes in his work, in protecting his country from the cruel violence of the drug trade. You admire him and feel proud to have him as your commanding officer in the Search Bloc. You’re the only civilian staff member in the unit. In general, Carrillo doesn’t trust anyone without a background in military or police work, but your brother worked with him before he was killed. And Carrillo desperately needs a secretary.

> **Secretary**
> 
> _Original definition: one entrusted with the secrets or confidences of a superior_

Your brother’s police salary helped put you through college, but when he was killed you took a job at a local shop to make ends meet. Carrillo’s job offer is a godsend. 

Honestly, you’re surprised by how much you love the work. You figured typing up police reports and taking notes in meetings would be boring. But Carrillo’s passion is infectious and you feel proud of the work you’re doing for your country. 

You’re mildly disgusted with yourself–but not at all surprised, let’s be honest–that your admiration turns to attraction. You can’t be blamed…it’s inevitable, a product of the long nights you spend together in the office listening to his hypnotic voice as he dictates, letting his words flow through your brain and out your fingertips. There’s something about being together in the dark hours, after everyone else has gone home for the night, that is intensely intimate. Even if it is entirely one-sided and definitely unprofessional of you to even have these thoughts. 

The worst part is you know he knows. He’s caught your eyes lingering on his chiseled arm muscles, the straining material of his uniform shirt over his broad chest, and– _yes, oh my god, how mortifying_ –the crotch of his pants as he paces in front of your desk recounting details for a report. You know it when he catches you because he pauses, just for a second, until you raise your eyes to meet his and you see the ghost of a smug smirk on his mouth. _Damn it._ But he’s never acted on his knowledge. That’s how you know this ridiculous crush of yours is entirely one-sided. And ill-advised. 

It’s not like you don’t have other options. Javier Peña is possibly the flirtiest man you’ve ever met. Any time he and Agent Murphy come into headquarters, he spends at least five minutes leaning his hips against your desk and fiddling with the picture frames, pens, and other little knick knacks while he tries to get you to go out with him. You blush and stammer and you can’t help but look over to see if Colonel Carrillo is watching–he always is. You shake your head at Peña and usher him into your boss’s office, following behind to take notes. You’re the only member of the unit that Carrillo trusts to listen in on his closed-door meetings with the DEA agents and you’re proud of that fact.

***

The first time your relationship with Colonel Carrillo exceeds the bounds of professionalism, you have Javier Peña to thank. Carrillo has been irritable and on edge all day. You know he has the weight of the world on his shoulders and you try not to take it too personally when he takes his frustration out on you. It’s not like you’re alone. He’s been snapping at people all day long. But when he calls you out in front of Murphy and Peña, admonishing you for losing the track of the meeting and asking him to repeat himself…well, for just a moment it’s too much.

Carrillo’s eyes narrow dangerously as he repeats his last sentence. Then he turns to you, the full weight of his aggravation directed at your tucked away spot in the corner, “What am I paying you for, Y/N? To sit around daydreaming while you’re supposed to be typing? Do you really need me to hold your hand while you do your work? Hmm?”

You’re mortified to feel your eyes fill with tears. _Don’t cry in front of him. Do. Not. Cry._

You blink furiously, lowering your head as you mumble, “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

He turns back to the DEA agents who both look sorry for you and the meeting continues. You try to put the incident out of your head. Carrillo is usually a kind, if demanding, boss. He doesn’t deserve the kind of stress he’s under, especially when he can’t even trust all of the men under his command. But you can’t squelch the sour feeling of hurt. Which, you guess, is why you finally say yes to Peña when he approaches you at the end of the meeting.

He makes a show of catching you before you leave Carrillo’s office. Your boss watches from behind his desk as Javi leans over you in the doorway and lets his eyes linger on your exposed collar bones as he speaks.

“Y/N, are you finally going to come out with us tonight? We’ll go to the club…have some drinks…some dancing. You know you want to dance with me…”

You force yourself not to look over at Carrillo as you answer, willing your voice to sound casual, “Sure…why not?”

The dance floor is crowded and you’re practically molded to Javi’s body as he swings his hips and lets his hands wander over your back. His hair is slick and clinging to his brow and he smiles down at you as you move with the music. His eyes are liquid and light and carefree. You can almost see this ending in his bed, even if your heart is still stupidly pining for your boss. 

You notice when his eyes suddenly focus on something behind you and a knowing grin spreads over his lips. Someone behind you puts their hands on your hips and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“I think I’ll be taking my secretary back, thank you,” Carrillo says with playful arrogance as he spins you in his arms and away from Javier who is already laughing and shaking his head as if he’d expected this.

Carrillo plants his palm on the small of your back and takes your hand in his as he confidently leads you away on the dance floor. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks down at you with eyes lit up with mischief and triumph and that smug little smirk on his lips. He pulls you close, rolling his hips into yours and leaning down to whisper into your ear, “I know you’ve wanted this, Y/N.”

And then he’s kissing you and it’s all heat and pent up passion, frustration and longing. This is no gentle kiss. He’s forceful and dominant, nipping your lower lip with sharp little bites and then prying your lips open so that he can press his tongue against yours. You surrender to it with embarrassing enthusiasm, melting obscenely against his body and clinging to his broad shoulders. The other dancers, the music, the rest of the world melts away.

He doesn’t take you to his bed that first night. He drives you home, sitting silently in the driver’s seat as you awkwardly attempt to invite him inside. He offers you a crooked smile and reaches out to run his fingers along your thigh, skimming under the hem of your short skirt. The touch sends shivers through your body and you want more. But he declines. 

“We have work in the morning, Y/N,” he says and a bit of his authoritative Colonel tone comes out before he softens it with, “Maybe next time.”

There are a few next times before everything goes to hell.

***

They put a black bag over your head as they drag you from the apartment. There isn’t time to see their faces, but you see the olive green uniforms. You know these men are your colleagues in the Search Bloc. And they’re acting under the orders of your lover. Your legs tangle beneath you and you scrape your knees on the stairs on the way out.

They throw you into the back of a car, tying your hands together behind your back and slamming the door shut. The vehicle starts to move, speeding around corners so quickly that you fall over and smack your face on the door handle. You cry out in pain and feel blood trickle down your nose.

“Shut up!” a voice grunts from the front seat. Then a hand grabs you, lifting the hood for a second and letting it fall back down. “Fuck–she’s bleeding. He didn’t want her hurt. God damn it. Come here!”

The hands pull you up roughly and strap you into the seat belt. You try to steady your breathing and ignore the pain on your face and knees. This is a good thing: Carrillo told them not to hurt you. So maybe he just has more questions. And once he realizes that you’re telling the truth, that this is all a big mistake, he’ll let you go and everything will be…everything will be okay.

_How can everything be okay after this?_

***

Nothing changes at work. Well, almost nothing. Javi doesn’t flirt with you nearly as much as he used to. But after hours, when the work is done, Carrillo takes you home with him. His house is a castle compared to your little apartment and you find that you rather enjoy the fantasy of being a rich man’s concubine. And Horacio is certainly a conqueror in bed. You’re not really surprised. The man doesn’t give an inch in any other aspect of his life–why wouldn’t he be commanding in bed?

Not that he’s ungenerous. The first time he takes you to bed he spends ages going down on you. His face buried between your thighs, tongue lapping between your folds while the bridge of his nose presses against your clit. The orgasm that quakes through your body is more intense than anything you’ve ever felt with the college boys you slept with in the past. But when he finishes with you, he pushes you off the bed and forces you to your knees, dragging the tip of his cock over your cheeks and ordering you to open your mouth.

_So._

He maintains his same rigid professionalism at work, expecting extraordinary effort and making it known when you need improvement. You appreciate the boundaries he keeps between your work and personal relationship, but you do find yourself wishing for a little more…definition when it comes to the personal side of things. You’ve never really discussed it, but you sense that he intends to keep it extremely casual. And you’re…not entirely okay with that. 

In fact, you might say you’ve caught some serious feelings and don’t know what to do with them.

***

The day it all goes to hell starts off normally enough.

When you walk in that morning you notice that Javi and Steve are already sitting in Carrillo’s office. Horacio waves you inside and you station yourself in the corner where there’s a small desk set up with a computer. You open up the word processor and sit expectantly, fingers hovering over the keys. 

The men start talking, a jumbled mix of Spanish and English that you type out verbatim. You’ll make both an English and Spanish translation later. For now you listen and type. 

One of Javi’s informants has a reliable tip on the location of one Escobar’s top sicarios later today. There have been a lot of screw ups lately, mostly due to information being leaked by corrupt cops. This time they’ll run things close to the vest. No one outside the room will be informed of the nature of the operation until they’re en route. They need this win.

They strategize for another fifteen minutes. All along you take down their words, their ideas, their secrets. Never realizing that your trusted position would soon come into question. You’ve always felt pride that Colonel Carrillo considers you a member of his inner circle. Never thinking that circle could be a dangerous place.

The meeting ends. Carrillo stands to leave, checking the gun in his holster and grabbing his bullet-proof vest. Before he can walk out the door you reach out and grab his elbow, boldly crossing the clear line you keep between you during work hours. Horacio freezes, not even turning fully to look at you, just cocking his head in question.

“Just…” you say, feeling foolish and naive, “please be safe, Colonel.”

He nods once before briskly walking away. You feel your heart squeeze as you watch him leave, imagining the danger he’s going out to face. Yeah, you’re definitely in trouble here.

***

When they finally pull the hood off you’re blinded by the dim light of the bulb hanging from the low ceiling in the basement room. They sit you in a chair by the wall and make no move to undo the ties on your wrists. You squirm a little, trying to get feeling back into your fingers. A shiver wracks your form. It’s cold down here. It was late when they grabbed you and you’re wearing only a t-shirt and sleep shorts. You feel exposed and humiliated and desperately afraid. You don’t recognize the faces of the two officers standing in front of you but that only means that they’ve never come up to Carrillo’s office. Their uniforms clearly mark them as members of the Search Bloc. 

“Where is Colonel Carrillo?” you ask in a voice that’s more tremulous than you’d like. You need to somehow get control here. 

One of the officers smirks and nudges the other one, “She wants to see the Colonel. Carrillo doesn’t bother himself with Escobar’s whores!”

He spits at your feet and kicks out at the chair leg causing you to jump and cringe away from him. 

_Oh god, what has he done?_


	2. Chapter 2

Carrillo feels a foolish stab of panic when he sees the door to your apartment hanging from its hinges. He snuffs it out immediately and stomps the rest of the way up the stairs with an angry grimace on his face. _She’s not who she pretended to be_ , he reminds himself as he crosses the threshold into your apartment and takes in the scene around him. 

There’s a broken cup sitting in a pool of milky tea on the floor. The cushions on the couch are disarrayed. But there are no other indications that something out of the ordinary took place here last night. Carrillo takes a deep breath, struggling for self-control. More and more in this job it becomes easy to slip out of his soul for a while to do the dark work necessary for the greater good. Today is different. Surrounded by the innocuous trappings of your private life he feels…well, he feels.

He moves through the living room and kitchen, opening drawers and flipping through the contents. This is actually his first time in your apartment. You’ve always spent your nights with him at his house. He feels the cruel irony that his first entrance into your domain is as an intruder. He putters around, distracted, picking up little porcelain figurines and then replacing them. Two of his men stand by the front door, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. He’s delaying and he knows it. He doesn’t want to go into your bedroom. The thought of it sends hot anxiety crawling up his neck. He knows it will be the one room most evocative of your presence. But this needs to be done. He needs to treat this like any other investigation. 

The first thing he notices when he steps into your bedroom–other than the rumpled, unmade bed, which is seriously unsurprising–is the photo on the nightstand. It feels like a punch to the gut. It’s a little 4x6 Kodak print, propped up against the mirrored glass lamp. He remembers the night you took it. Holding up the cheap, disposable camera at arm’s length to capture a photo of the two of you in bed, lips pressed together in a kiss. He threatened to destroy the camera but in the end he let you keep it, making you swear not to add it to the collection on your desk at work. Little rows of snapshots in cheap novelty frames that Pena is always inspecting and rearranging. 

Carrillo can’t take his eyes away from the photo. Your lips are curled upward, suppressing a laugh and he looks so…at peace…with his eyes closed and his fingers threaded through your hair.

_God…what is he doing?_

***

Aftercare Horacio is your favorite. He can get pretty rough in the heat of your love-making. Your thighs have the bruises to prove it. But afterwards? When you’re trembling in each other’s arms and panting against his lips? Horacio melts. He’s soft and vulnerable and attentive. He lays kisses on the crown of your head and rubs comforting circles into your back as he tucks you into his side. These are the moments when you allow yourself to feel all the things. The hope and affection and longing for more. You know the morning will bring a return of the status quo, a return of Colonel Carrillo, who is too serious and devoted to his mission to consider a serious relationship. But for now you can pretend.

You run your fingertip along the plump edge of his lips, eyes fixed on your progress as you whisper, “Did you always want to be a police officer, _mi amado_? Even when you were a little boy?”

Horacio presses his lips together into a thin line, denying you access. He laughs when you try worming your finger into his mouth. He grabs your hand and nips your fingers with a playful growl before finally responding, “Yes, I always wanted to be a cop. I used to play cops and robbers with my cousins but they got bored too easily…they said I took it too seriously.”

You bust out laughing and he just stares back at you with bland amusement on his face, “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, muffling giggles against his warm skin and smudging the tears in your eyes. 

“That is _so_ you, Horacio!” you laugh.

He squeezes his arms around you and asks, “Well, did you always want to be a secretary for an important, powerful, strikingly handsome Colonel?”

You snort sarcastically, “Oh, shut up! You are so full of yourself, _sir_.”

You clamber over him, reaching for your bag on the floor by the bed and fishing through the jumbled contents. Horacio quietly laughs at you as you struggle to sift through the unorganized mess. He traces patterns on your naked back with his fingertips until you finally pop back up, triumphantly wielding a disposable camera.

“Come here, _mi amor_ ,” you order him playfully. “I need a picture of us.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” he burrows his head under a pillow as soon as he sees the camera. “Why do you need a picture?”

“Because,” you whine, pulling the pillow out of his grip and forcing him into the frame with you, “I want to remember how sweet you look with your hair all mussed and your face soft and lovey…”

Horacio sighs dramatically and his tone is firm as he responds, “You’re not allowed to put this on your desk at work.”

Your lips split into a grin as you agree, “Okay!”

“And you can’t put it in one of those cheesy frames you buy with the glitter and the hearts and all that crap.”

You narrow your eyes in mock outrage but nod your head, “Okay!! Kiss me, baby!”

You try not to squint your eyes too much as the camera flashes. You want to capture this moment just as it feels: precious, fragile, and beautiful. 

***

You wake from the dream and for a moment you still feel the warmth of love and well-being. But your body wakes you to reality, uncontrollable shivers wracking your form. You’re curled up on the freezing concrete, arms still tied behind your back, your cheek pressed into the dirty floor. It takes you a minute to wobble into an upright position; you feel like your whole body has gone numb. 

One of the guards has left and the other one sits in the chair a few feet away from you. He’s smoking and his legs are splayed out with the casual arrogance unique to men. He casts a bored look in your direction but doesn’t say a word. Your thoughts are moving slowly, sluggish after the stress of last night and the few hours of broken sleep. Your body is a little more eloquent: your nose still aches, you’re damp and freezing and feel like you’ll never be warm again, you’re hungry and you desperately need to go to the bathroom. That last fact feels the most pressing and you squirm uncomfortably for a moment. But you’ll be damned if you say anything about it to this man.

Instead you ask, “When is Colonel Carrillo coming?”

The guard arches an eyebrow at you and replies in a monotone, “Shut up.”

_Okay. Not promising._

But you don’t have to wait long for a clue. A satellite phone on the man’s hip rings and he gets up and walks to the other side of the room to answer. You hear his muttered affirmatives and infer that Carrillo…or someone…must be on their way. You curl your legs up and rest your chin on your knees, trying and failing to flex your numb fingers. It will be okay. Just a bit longer and then you’ll see Horacio and everything will get sorted out.

***

Carrillo squares his shoulders and schools his facial expression as he descends the stairs into the basement. He imagines that he’s ready to face the scene that awaits him, that he’s detached himself from his emotions successfully and entirely. He is utterly mistaken. What gets to him isn’t the bruising and dried blood on your face, the tear tracks on your cheeks, the huddled, pitiful posture…no, it’s the look of relief and hope that lights your face as soon as you see him stride purposely into the room. That you still look at him as a savior…a lover…after all of this is just too much and he looks away like a coward.

He can feel your eyes on him as he crosses the room to address the guard. He’s torn between maintaining a cold demeanor and letting his fury loose on his subordinate. His emotions are all jumbled and confused. Anger at your injury transforms into anger at you for betraying him and anger with himself for being vulnerable. It’s a dangerous cycle and Carrillo has lost all control of it.

“Tell me,” he bites out, there’s no question as to what he wants to know.

“Boss,” the guard answers, hands held out, placating, “she hit her head when we put her in the car. We haven’t touched her–”

Carrillo growls in frustration and holds up a hand to shut the man up.

“Go upstairs,” he dismisses him. Carrillo stands perfectly still in the middle of the dank room, listening to the guard’s boots stomp up the stairs and focusing on steadying his breathing. He clenches his fists at his sides, bracing himself for what he needs to do. Before he’s finished he sees you in the corner of his eye scrambling to stand up on shaky legs.

“Horacio,” you call to him, your voice infused with the stress and desperation that’s overwhelmed you since you were taken. When you reach him you practically fall into his arms. 

But Carrillo steps back, pushing you away and hissing angrily, “Don’t touch me!”

It’s a near thing but you manage to keep your balance. You’re standing there feeling shocked and stupid. What are you expecting? You know Carrillo is the one who ordered your arrest. But somehow your imagination has not been able to conjure the reality of your lover’s betrayal. You’ve been surviving off the hope that when he saw you again he would realize his mistake at once and make things right. He has to, doesn’t he?

Carrillo straightens his spine and looks down his nose at you, adopting the guise of the Colonel about to interrogate a prisoner.

“Sit down,” he orders, not a trace of softness in his voice.

You walk over to the metal chair but he stops you with another stern command, “On the floor.”

You turn your head to cast a glance at him over your shoulder, brows knit together in confusion. _Why is he doing this?_

You totter back to the place where you slept, leaning your aching shoulders against the wall to keep your balance as you awkwardly fold to the floor. Carrillo drags the metal chair legs over the concrete and plants it in front of you, taking his seat with feigned nonchalance. He stares down at you in silence for a long moment. A standard technique to unnerve prisoners. Right now it’s backfiring spectacularly as Carrillo struggles to determine how to begin. This should not be so difficult.

He’s relieved when you finally break the silence, your words barely a whisper, “What is going on, Horacio?”

The words register and he feels a flash of anger that fuels his reply, “You know what’s going on, Y/N.”

You deflate before his eyes and he chooses to take it as a sure sign of guilt.

“Horacio, I already told you I would never–”

“How long have you been working for Escobar?” he interrupts, voice clipped and unfeeling.

The question, his tone, the cold mask of his face, it’s all too much and you feel tears spill over your cheeks. 

Your voice is thick with emotion but you try to muster your outrage, “How can you ask me that? How can you not know how I feel? I would never betray you, mi amor–!”

He pushes himself off the chair, taking a knee to loom over you in all of his violent fury. He reaches for his belt and pulls out the wickedly sharp hunting knife from its holster. For the first time in all of this you’re actually afraid of him, flinching away from the blade.

“Shut. Your. Mouth,” he demands and he reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a piece of paper. You’re breathless with fright and sadness and it takes a minute for you to recognize what he’s holding in his hand.

It’s the photo of the two of you kissing. The one you keep by your bed. He holds it up in front of your face and lets his lips curl into a cruel smile. He’s caught his stride now. He can do this. He watches your face crumple as he slices the picture in two and lets the halves fall to the floor.

“I see through your manipulations now, _mi amo_ r,” his voice drips with sarcasm as he utters the endearment. 

His face hovers inches away from yours, he’s using his nearness to cage you against the wall. With no way of escape you simply turn your face away and shut your eyes. Willing this cruel image of your lover to vanish. The heat of his breath warms your cheek, a mockery of the intimate moments you’ve shared. How has it come to this?

You part your lips and take in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to speak again, “I don’t work for Escobar, Horacio. I don’t know how the information on the operation leaked. But it wasn’t me.”

He doesn’t answer you and you just sit there, cringing into the wall and breathing shakily. You can feel the heat of his body crouched over you but he doesn’t touch you. For that you’re thankful. You want to preserve the memory of his gentle touch, to hold onto it like a talisman.

Carrillo stares at you. He still feels a surge of anger and guilt when he sees the dark bruising and dried blood around your nose. Your whole body is tensed as if to flee but he knows you have nowhere to go. With your posture turned away from him he can see your hands tied behind your back. The tips of your fingers are starting to turn blue. He reaches down and pokes your index finger. He curses under his breath when you don’t respond to the touch. In one swift motion he sweeps the knife through the rope, releasing your wrists. The sudden freedom sends a painful rush of blood into your hands and your shoulders feel like they’re on fire. You cry out in pain. 

Carrillo is already standing, brushing off his pants and turning away. Even after everything he’s said and done in the last few minutes you feel a flare of panic as he walks away. Something inside you is irrevocably bound to this man and you refuse to turn away or believe that he’s lost to you.

“Baby, don’t leave me here!” you cry. 

He pauses. His broad shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. For a moment you think he’ll turn around and come back to you, taking you in his strong arms and carrying you out of this horrible place. But the moment passes and as he walks up the stairway you feel the first sinking feeling of lost hope.


	3. Chapter 3

You trace your fingers along the outside of the round birthmark on your lover’s shoulder, a little contented smile on your lips. Horacio watches you with heavy lidded eyes, enjoying the sleepy, sated tranquility in the wake of your love making. 

“My mom used to call it an angel’s kiss,” he comments.

You arch your eyebrows and smile wider, “An angel’s kiss? …I’m jealous of the angel.”

That smug smirk again. How is it possible that you even love his smugness? Whenever you admit to your obvious infatuation with him, Horacio gets this look of pleased self-satisfaction that should be annoying but it seems that there’s nothing about this man you don’t adore. You know you should stop, build up your defenses now before the inevitable hurt. But it just feels so good to fall for him.

He sighs contentedly and pulls you closer, your naked breasts pressed against his muscular chest.

“She said it meant I was blessed by the angels. That I have a guardian who will always protect me,” he explains, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

The words sink in and you think about Horacio’s mother holding her little boy in her arms and asking God to watch over him. You remember the catch in your throat you feel every time he goes out on a raid. It doesn’t go away until he’s safe in your arms again. You blink rapidly, banishing the tears threatening to form.

“Well… good,” you sigh, leaning forward and pressing your lips to the birthmark, willing your kiss to leave its own mark of protection on his soul.

***

Horacio doesn’t look back as he strides out of the office to start organizing the mission. You watch him go–your strong, competent man–and forcefully remind yourself that he can take care of himself. _He’ll be okay._

But no matter what you tell yourself you can’t stop your hands from shaking as you gather the sheets of notes from the printer and walk back to your desk. You need to work on formatting and translating before shredding the draft and filing the final copies in the locked cabinets in Carrillo’s office. You should get started…it’ll take your mind off of your worry. Instead you find yourself opening the top drawer of your desk and removing the photo you keep there, not-so-cleverly hidden. You trace the image of Horacio’s smiling face. He grins into the camera, eyes bright and hair messy. You took it the same night you took the other shot of the two of you kissing–the one you keep on your nightstand. Horacio would probably have a coronary if he knew you keep this at work, but it’s a comfort to you when your man has to march into danger. A reminder that he’s given you access to his secret self and that everything will be okay again.

The tears come all of a sudden and you’re _mortified_. You never let yourself get this way in the office. You glance around, seeing that some of the officers are already shooting surreptitious looks in your direction. You drop the photo and rush out into the corridor, making a beeline for the bathroom.

The photo of Carrillo falls to your desk, landing beside the abandoned pages of classified notes.

***

They must have changed shifts because a new guard walks into the room shortly after Carrillo leaves. This time it’s a man you vaguely recognize, although you can’t summon his name. He curls his lip in disgust at the smell that permeates the air. You couldn’t wait any longer and had availed yourself of a bucket on the far side of the room. He casts a disgusted glance your way but doesn’t say a word.

You’ve wedged yourself into a corner, taking comfort in having something solid at your back. For a moment you stare back at the guard with wide eyes, watching as he settles into his seat. He fidgets, adjusting his belt and gun, sending a glare your way before turning to watch the doorway. When it seems like he’s going to leave you alone, you look down at the scraps of paper in your hands. You press the two halves of the photo together and your eyes well up with tears. For a second you’re overwhelmed with self-disgust and the urge to tear the picture into tinier pieces. But just as quickly you feel a stab of panic that this one piece of love and gentleness might be taken from you and you clutch the precious scraps to your chest. 

Your last hope may have walked out along with Horacio, but you can’t give up the comfort your memories provide. You’re still sitting there clutching the torn photograph like a security blanket when you hear heavy footsteps on the stairs.

***

“Colonel, it could be nothing but…”

The officers assigned to surveil Carrillo’s wiretaps are set up just outside the Colonel’s office. They all notice when the secretary doesn’t return to work the day after the failed raid. And at least one of them, Lieutenant Gabby Rodriguez, has more insight into why her boss seems exceptionally sullen when he walks into the office later than usual that morning. After all, she’s listened to you on the phone with your mother, alluding to the guy you’re seeing–high-ranking, driven, handsome. It’s not a huge leap.

Carrillo motions for Lieutenant Rodriquez to shut the door behind her.

“What is it?” he asks, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke out his nostrils. You’d told him you hate smoking and he’d laughed. He’s fighting a bloody war against criminals who murder, kidnap and traffic cocaine with impunity and you’re worried about his lungs. He clenches a fist in frustration, he just can’t rid you from his mind.

“It’s just…I saw something yesterday that might have a bearing on the leaks in the unit lately,” Rodriguez says. She forces confidence into her voice but she’s not even sure she should be saying this. 

Carrillo straightens in his seat and his eyes blaze with intensity, “What was it?”

So, she tells him. She wasn’t the only officer to notice you running off to the bathroom with tears in your eyes after Carrillo marched off–clearly gearing up for _something_. But it seems she was the only one who noticed Ruiz slide up to your desk afterwards. He looked as if he were searching for a pen or stapler to steal, his hands busily rummaging over the contents of your desk. But his eyes…his eyes never left the stack of papers set neatly next to your keyboard. 

Carrillo lets his hands fall to his sides beneath the desk, hiding the tremor as Rodriguez’s words sink in. His mind helpfully supplies him with the image of your face, crumpled and tear-streaked as he forced you to watch him mangle the photograph of you both. He feels a wave of heat crawling up his neck and threatening to choke the life from him. _What has he done?_ He’s so overwhelmed for a moment that he almost misses a key detail.

“Did you say…Ruiz?” his voice is breathless and Rodriquez is taken aback by the intensity in his words.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure–”

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Carrillo is already moving, sweeping past the baffled Lieutenant and grabbing a radio off his desk. He glances toward your desk on his way out–force of habit–and sees the snapshot, half-tucked under the desk blotter but clear as day. A photo of himself on your desk. A photo that Ruiz no doubt noticed during his hasty search. _Fuck._

He’s radioing for any units close by to immediately proceed to the location of the secret house. The basement that stinks of piss and blood and fear. The freezing pit where he’d left you. His lover. Because he was too arrogant and angry at his own vulnerability to see the truth. And now you’re not only wrongfully imprisoned–but held in the care of a man who is clearly accepting money from Pablo _Fucking_ Escobar. 

***

“You ready to resign, fucker?”

The man laughs and pulls your guard into a one armed hug. The newcomer is dressed in civilian clothes–a loose-fitting polo shirt and denim pants. There’s a pistol sticking out of the waistband of his jeans and he carries himself with a loose-limbed confidence that sets off alarm bells in the back of your head. Something ancient and primal within you warns you this man is dangerous, a predator. He turns to look at you, casting a charming, dimpled smile your way. La Quica. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

His smile widens and you know he sees the flare of recognition in your eyes, in your sudden shaky exhale. You look away, focusing your gaze downward, catching sight of Horacio’s soft face in the photo, crushing it into your fist to hide it from this man’s notice. 

You speak up, addressing the guard with a futile plea, “C-call the Colonel! Please…do you know who this is? You have to call Colonel Carrillo!”

Quica laughs, his tone mocking you, “Do you know who I am, Ruiz? Yeah, he knows, baby.”

The sicario stalks toward you and you stand on shaky legs, refusing to cower in fear though you’d really like to do just that.

“What do you want?” you demand approximating haughty confidence.

Quica leans his arms against the wall on either side of your body, trapping you. He smiles down at you, boyish good looks doing nothing to hide the hungry killer’s gaze.

“We’re going to send a little message to your boyfriend,” he says, dragging his fingertips over the side of your face, trailing down your neck and finally resting his flat palm against your chest. 

Adrenaline rushes through your blood and your head spins, panicked at his words.

“He-he’s not my boyfriend. He arrested me! So, it wouldn’t be much of a message–”

Quica interrupts you, eyes lighting up as he focuses on the paper sticking out from your clenched fist. 

“What do you have there, cariño? Hmm? Let me see,” he grabs your hand and pries your fingers apart, snatching the two halves of the photo from your grip. His face darkens with menace as he puts them together and looks up at you accusingly, “Not your boyfriend, huh, puta?”

The blow to your stomach comes without warning. One moment you’re upright, caught in Quica’s terrifying gaze and the next you’re bent double with the wind knocked out of you. He doesn’t give you a chance to recover before he’s jamming his knee into your stomach and pushing you to the ground. He kneels down next to you, grabbing his gun and bringing the handle down on your face in a series of blows that leave you bruised and covered in blood. You’ve barely had a chance to get your breath back, let alone scream. He pauses, looking down at you as you bring your hands up to try to shield yourself, moans wheezing from your lips. He draws his fingers down your cheek, using the blood to paste the photo up on the wall above you. He smiles at his work.

“This will make a nice present for Carrillo,” he muses, looking at you with soulless eyes as he contemplates what to do next. “Damn, it’s a shame. I think you might be cute without all the blood.”

Then he’s digging his hands into the waistband of your shorts and ripping them from your body. Your voice is ragged and broken but you manage a scream and bring you hand up to rake your nails over his face in defense. Quica’s eyes flash and he grabs both your wrists in one hand, pinning them between your bodies as he presses himself against you.

“You shouldn’t have done that, puta,” he grinds out against your lips. You can feel him shifting around, unbuckling his belt. _Oh God_ , “I was going to be nice to you…”

“Shit, Quica–!”

The guard’s words are cut off as gun fire sounds from the stairwell. Quica rears back and sprints across the room towards the sounds. You don’t have the strength to try and follow what’s happening. Your face feels like it’s been smashed in and you have a crushing headache. You just curl up your legs and hold your head in your hands, hoping for unconsciousness. 

***

Carrillo holds the assault rifle in his arms like it’s an extension of his body. He takes down Ruiz before the fucker even has time to raise his weapon. But he’d heard his yell just before he went down and it sends fear, like shards of ice, piercing through his veins. _La Quica_. He proceeds down the stairs, quickly but cautiously. The sicario is already scrambling like a spider-monkey up the far wall and smashing through the high, narrow window to make his escape. Carrillo wants to fucking murder this man with his bare hands but the sound of a pained moan from behind him stops him in his tracks.

You’re lying on the floor, your face battered and covered in blood, half naked and crying in pain. Carrillo falls to his knees beside you, shouting into his radio for an ambulance. His hands flutter in the air over your body, needing to help but fearful of causing more damage. He finally settles for laying a hand on your trembling shoulder, smoothing his palm over your chilled skin and speaking in low tones, “Y/N, you’ll be okay. You’re okay now, mi amada. Shhh, it’s okay.”

The touch and his voice break through the cloud of your pain and fear and you’re reaching for him, climbing into his arms and pressing yourself against his strong chest, clinging to his shirt front with clenched fists. You mutter something under your breath and Carrillo has to duck his head down to hear you clearly, “Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave. Don’t leave.”

A sob lodges in his throat but he clears it away, answering you in his strong voice, “I won’t leave you, Y/N.”

He holds you, trembling in his arms, until help arrives. All the while he’s whispering comforting words in your ear and staring at the torn photo pasted to the wall with your blood. He’s ashamed and afraid that you’ll never look at him the same way again. But he also feels a deep, burning rage like nothing he’s felt before. He’s going to kill every last one of these fuckers.

And then. 

Then what? 

Then he’ll come back to you, go to his knees, and take his punishment. Whatever you do to him will be more than he deserves. If you choose never speak to him again then he’ll still count himself a lucky man for having once had the chance to hold you in his arms. A lucky man…and a fool.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this chapter to be a fluffy relief and instead it turned into ~2500 words of further angst. Soooo, enjoy that. Thanks to the folks who commented and left kudos! Also a huge part of this chapter was inspired by redhouseclan who wanted to see Javi back in the picture. That comment actually redirected the direction of this whole fic a bit! Thank you!!

Carrillo watches the light in your window go out at 10:43 PM. His fingers relax on the steering wheel and he lets go of a long sigh. He catches Trujillo’s eye from the other side of the street and gives a little wave as he starts his engine. 

He hasn’t seen your face since that day. He doesn’t know if your wounds are healed yet or if you have scars. He doesn’t know if your eyes look sad or angry or scared. Carrillo doesn’t believe he deserves that knowledge. This is all he allows himself. Every night for the three weeks since you left the hospital, he drives to your apartment and sits and waits until your lights go out. He used to watch you as you fell asleep in his bed. This is all he has now.

He turns the key in the ignition, puts the car into gear, and pulls away from the curb. All the while hearing the last words you spoke to him in that broken voice as he held you, bleeding, in his arms. _Don’t leave me,_ you said. But how can he stay when he’s ruined everything?

When he finally sees you again it will be with La Quica’s blood on his hands.

***

You click off the lamp and stand still for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness. Your living room looks just as it always has; someone repaired your door before you came home from the hospital. Actually they’d done more than repair it–it now features an impressive array of industrial looking locks. You hadn’t been gone long but it’s strange to come back and find your old life seemingly untouched. _Seemingly_.

You drift toward the balcony window, obscuring your body behind the floor length drapes and peering down at the street below. All you can see of him are his hands on the steering wheel. As far as you know he’s been here every night. He doesn’t ever try to come up to your apartment. He just sits outside and watches over you until you go to bed. 

You watch as he starts the car and pulls out onto the street, slowly driving away into the night. A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you turn from the window. You let a tear fall down your cheek without wiping it away. If you acknowledge just one tear you’re afraid you’ll never be able to stop crying.

***

What was it Horacio used to say? _Gringos to the rescue?_

Once again you have Javi to thank for something. This time it’s forcing you out of your self-induced solitude and into the world. You haven’t seen either of the DEA agents since before your ordeal, but Connie sent you a bouquet of flowers at the hospital with a kind note. It was nice of her especially since you’d only met once, the night you first danced with Horacio. _God_ , everything reminds you of him.

So, you’re more than a little surprised when you answer your door in the early evening to find Javi standing there. He’s still the same smirking, smoldering, long-limbed flirt you remember–but now when he speaks his voice is gentle like he fears he might hurt you if he’s too forceful.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs, leaning over you in the doorway. “How you holding up?”

You look down at your two-day old pajamas and back up at him, “Javier, have you ever heard of a phone call?”

“You look beautiful, Y/N,” he laughs. “Let me in?”

You move aside on instinct, not because you really want to be entertaining a guest right now (or ever again, possibly). Javi’s tall figure seems to dwarf your tiny apartment. You can’t remember the last time you had a man in your apartment. Horacio had never even–

 _Well._ Your mind flashes back to the memory of your Horacio reaching into his back pocket and revealing the photo he’d taken from your nightstand, his mouth curled in a cruel grin. _Well…_ you suppose he had been here, after all.

Javi turns from his perusal of your living room to find you still standing holding the door open with a stricken look on your face as the memory assaults your senses. He recognizes the look of someone haunted by a past event and he keeps his distance but speaks in a soothing tone, “Hey, Y/N. You’re okay. You’re safe now, okay?”

You slowly shake your head, coming back to the present and focusing on Javier’s concerned gaze. You force a little smile on your lips and move to shut the door.

“I’m okay, Javi. Thank you,” you murmur. He looks back at you with those dark, liquid eyes and you remember the time not so long ago when you thought _maybe…_

But that was before Horacio had swept you off your feet. Before he let you into his secret world and you fell in love with the way he could be soft and gentle but only for you. That was before a lot of things.

You don’t want to worry Javier by getting caught up in your thoughts again so you force yourself to make conversation even though what you really want to do is go back to sitting on the couch and watching TV like you’ve done for the last three weeks. Avoiding the reality of being jobless and still a possible target for Escobar’s sicarios. 

“So…what’s up, Javi?”

He takes a seat on your couch and pats the spot next to him. You sit down considerably farther away, but you smile as you wait for his answer.

“Steve and Connie are having a nice dinner at their place tonight and we all thought maybe you could use some company,” Javi explains. 

It’s a very kind offer and you’re trying to formulate a decent excuse when he adds, “And before you say no, just know that staying at home and moping doesn’t count as a valid excuse. Come on, we’re all worried about you.”

Something in his gaze indicates that he isn’t only referring to himself, Steve and Connie, but you don’t want to go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

The truth is you’ve been living in fear since you came home from the hospital. The presence of the bodyguard stationed outside your apartment is somewhat comforting–but that comes with a double edge as he wears the same uniform as the men who dragged you from your home weeks ago. You haven’t left your apartment except to buy some groceries. It’s part fear and part shame. You dread the look of pity in a stranger’s eyes seeing a girl with a beat up face walking down the street. But…you’ve got to get it over with sometime, right?

“A-alright. Fine,” you say, pleased to watch Javi’s face light up with a grin. “But I need time to change.”

“And shower,” Javi adds and you send him a glare as you walk into your bedroom and shut the door between you.

***

Carrillo rips the bag off the kid’s head and doesn’t let him recover even a second before he’s pressing the barrel of his gun against his cheek and growling, “Dónde. Está. La Quica? Hijo de puta!”

Trujullo stands at the guy’s back, holding his arms behind him and watching with a dispassionate stare as his boss lowers the bag once more. The kid gasps and chokes for air again, the plastic bag suctioning to his mouth, veins popping in his neck, before Carrillo finally relents.

“You ready to talk, fucker?” he asks, knocking the gun against the kid’s head as he gulps in air.

“I’ll tell you…I’ll tell you! There’s a–a whore house he goes to all the time. He likes one of the girls there…A-Angela or Angie or some shit. He can’t stay away…”

“Where?” Carrillo demands, fisting his hand in the guy’s long hair. He whimpers, descends into sobs for a second but, finally, he tells him.

Carrillo pats the kid’s cheek and smiles down at him like a benevolent god. 

“Bueno,” he says, placing his gun to the top of the kid’s head and pulling the trigger.

The body falls to the ground and Carrillo wipes a hand over his sweat slicked brow.

“Colonel, you want me to get surveillance on the place?” Trujillo asks, stepping over the body.

“Yeah, but keep it fucking quiet, Trujillo,” Carrillo agrees.

“No problem.”

***

Maybe a third glass of wine isn’t the best idea after weeks of living off of coffee and junk food, but it’s just so good to feel normal again. 

Connie and Steve don’t bat an eye at the obvious scaring on your cheek and forehead, nor the faded echoes of bruises. They welcome you with warmth and whenever things seem to be approaching an awkward silence Javi is there to smooth things over with his sardonic humor. This is…nice. You assumed this would be an evening you’d have to struggle through, but it’s refreshing to be living outside the space of your own traumatic memories for a little while. The only thing that dampens your mood is the marked skirting around any mention of Carrillo. Especially when–you admit–you ache to hear how he’s doing. 

The third glass of wine gives you courage and you lean into Javi’s side to whisper, “Tell me, Javi.”

He looks down at you with a puzzled smile, taking some amusement in your obviously buzzed state, “Tell you what, baby?”

You’re seated in the living room by now, enjoying a final after dinner drink and vaguely listening to Connie tell a story about when she and Steve were first dating. You’re probably being rude, but you’re feeling so floaty and happy that you can’t blame yourself.

“How is he, Javi. Come on. I want to know. I need to know,” you hiss back at him, you’re leaning quite heavily into his side by now and your lips hover near his ear. Steve quirks and eyebrow at Javi across the coffee table but Javi shakes his head with a soft smile.

He sighs as he considers how to answer you, “He’s…broken and trying to put himself back together.”

You snort and roll your eyes, “Aren’t we all?”

Javi raises his glass to salute you as he takes a gulp.

The whiskey burns down his throat and his voice comes out gravelly, “Don’t waste your time worrying about him, Y/N. That asshole is torturing himself and it’s what he deserves.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, staring at the wine glass in your hands and suddenly feeling the drunken happiness turn on you as your mouth folds into a frown. A shiver goes down your spine and you want nothing more than to be held in Horacio’s strong arms right this very second. Your breath goes shaky and you swallow a sob, not wanting to turn this shining evening into another bad memory.

“I just…I miss him,” you say in a whisper. 

Javi leans back on the couch and watches you with sad eyes. He hadn’t…well he hadn’t realized how serious things were between the two of you before all this went down. If Carrillo’s obsessive pursuit of La Quica hadn’t tipped him off, your behavior tonight does the trick. He shakes his head and mentally curses Carrillo. Connie and Steve are making goo goo eyes at each other across the room and Javi heaves a frustrated sigh. Is it even possible to maintain something as pure and fragile as love in the middle of this fucking nightmare?

The night winds down and you say your goodbyes. You hug Connie extra tight and hope she doesn’t notice your glassy eyes as you thank her for the invitation. Even if you’d turned sad at the end–you really needed this.

Javi is quiet on the drive back to your apartment but you’re not afraid to sit in the silence with him. He’s a good friend. As the car winds through the serpentine streets of Medellin your drunken mind wanders, too, and you find yourself thinking about inviting him upstairs with you when you reach your apartment. Even though a voice in the back of your mind warns you that it’s a terrible, no good idea. That this is not the man who’s embrace you crave. 

The car drifts up to the sidewalk and Javi cuts the engine.

“I’ll walk you inside,” he says, slipping out of the vehicle before you have a chance to respond. 

He walks with his hand lightly hovering over the small of your back and you try to hide the sway in your gait, although you’re pretty sure Javi already knows you’re feeling the wine. You can’t help glancing around as he leads you up the steps. Carrillo must be here, watching you. But in the dark you can’t make out his car. You’re suddenly overcome with frustration and hurt. _Why won’t he come to you?_ Why does he spend every night just out of reach when you _need_ him. Yes, you’re angry. Yes, he has so much to account for. But…but you know the moment he puts his arms around you you’ll melt and finally– _finally_ –feel safe again. 

But he won’t come to you.

You stomp your foot on the front step and your face twists in sadness, “He keeps leaving me, Javi!”

Javi looks at you bewildered, “What are you talking about?”

The words fall from your lips uninhibited, “He comes here every night and watches my apartment and he keeps…he keeps leaving. Why doesn’t he come back to me, Javi? He doesn’t…oh, god, he doesn’t love me…”

You dissolve into tears, reaching out for Javi’s arms, wanting comfort from anyone at this point. Javi hugs you lightly but his eyes are scanning the street now, wondering if it’s true that Carrillo is watching from somewhere. He’s distracted and caught off guard when you suddenly drag him down by the shirt collar and lock your lips to his. The kiss is sloppy and sad and over in seconds. But it happens.

Javi pulls back, “No, baby. That’s not what you want. Come on, I’ll get you inside.”

He gathers you in his arms and walks you through the door. 

***

Carrillo sits motionless in his car watching Javi escort you inside after the tearful kiss. He tells himself that his place is as an outside observer now. He’d had his chance to be in your life and he ruined it. But he can’t get the look on your face out of his head. That wasn’t a friendly goodnight kiss or even a kiss between two lovers. It was a heartsick, anguished kiss. A broken kiss.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he lets it out in a relieved sigh as Javi exits the apartment building a few minutes later. The cocky DEA agent looks somber…angry even. And just before he’s about to get in his car he looks up and focuses that angry gaze on Carrillo.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had writer’s block for days trying to start this chapter. I was finally able to get a good flow going today and I just couldn’t stop! This will be the last chapter in our story and I truly want to thank everyone who has read, commented, and helped me just by being there and talking to me. I say it’s “our story” because I really don’t think it would exist as it’s written without the feedback and input of everyone following it.

When you wake up the next morning your head throbs so badly that it takes a minute for things to come back to you.

_Oh._

_Oh, no, no, noooo._

You kissed _Javi_. If you can call it a kiss. It was…more of a mouth attack. Pressing your ugly crying face against his because you were so fucking scared of sleeping alone one more night that you preferred to live with the regret if it meant he’d hold you while you fell asleep. 

You groan in disgust, burying your face in the pillows. You need to pull yourself together. Stop thinking about Horacio. Stop thinking about Javi. And just wash your damn face, drink some water and go outside. You think about your girlfriend, Paola, who lives just a few blocks over. She’s been calling you every few days just to check in. You’d informed her–briefly, leaving out a lot of details–about your mistaken arrest and the woman was appalled. You had to resort to begging when she threatened to either shower you in comfort food casseroles or storm Carrillo’s headquarters like an avenging angel. You should go see her. She knows enough not to ask too many painful questions but she’s also far enough removed that you won’t be constantly reminded.

It feels good to have a plan.

Paola’s house always smells strongly of disinfectant and cat food. It takes some getting used to. She’s taken it upon herself to become the neighborhood cat shelter so at any given time she’s got about twenty cats and kittens living with her in addition to the feral ones that she feeds from her yard. A less organized person would be overwhelmed caring for so many animals. But Paola is a force of nature.

“Dios mío!” she exclaims when she opens up her front door. “You’re alive! And out in the world like a normal person! I’m so proud of you!”

You roll your eyes at her from the front step but her sarcasm is already breathing new life into you. Steve, Connie and Javi are angels for getting you out of your shell–but you need Paola to kick you the ass a little. With love.

She grabs your shoulder and hurries you into the house before one of the cats escapes. By the time the door closes behind you she’s already hustling down the hallway away from you.

“I’m on kitten watch!” she yells, disappearing into the living room. When you trail behind her she points behind the couch and shushes you with a finger to her lips

“Coco’s been nesting behind the couch all morning,” she whispers. “She doesn’t want to be disturbed, but we can hang out in here as long as you’re not going to get hysterical.”

She’s busting your balls and you love it. You shake your head and take a seat gingerly on the couch before replying, “I just had to get out and I was feeling guilty about ignoring you the last few weeks.”

Paola waves a hand in dismissal, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been busy with adoptions. How have you been, though? Really?”

You feel a wave of affection for your friend. You really need to unload on someone who doesn’t think you’re made of glass. Here it goes.

“So you know that DEA guy I told you about who used to try to flirt with me all the time…?”

Paola widens her eyes and her lips curl in a surprised grin, “Here I thought you were pining away–!”

“I am! Pining,” you interrupt. “But…I did–sort of–slightly kiss him last night. Outside my apartment…”

She’s shaking her head, “Outside your apartment, where you know for a fact your man has been staking out every night. Nice move, Y/N.”

You groan and sink down in your seat, “It was not intentional, Paola! It was…so embarrassing. I don’t know how I’m ever going to face Javi again.”

Paola snorts, “Something tells me it didn’t phase that man at all. Didn’t you tell me he has a reputation for sleeping with…well…everyone?”

“Everyone but me,” you laugh. “Ugh–Paola, I was ready to invite him in just so I wouldn’t have to be alone. I hate myself for being this needy.”

Your friend looks at you sympathetically. You can see the gears cranking away in her brain. She always wants to be the one to offer solutions. But what can she possibly offer you?

Her eyes light up and she announces, “I know the perfect solution to loneliness!”

…And that’s how you wind up adopting Tigre, a four year old stray male cat whom Paola assures you is the most affectionate cat she’s ever rescued.

“Now you won’t have to accost innocent men on the street just because you don’t want to sleep alone!” she teases you, putting together a tote bag of supplies for you to bring home. 

“You know I walked here, right? This is a lot of stuff!” you grouse, but you’re holding the orange fur ball in your arms and he’s purring and rubbing his cheeks against you and you’re already halfway in love. 

Paola ignores you, cramming food, toys, litter and a litter box into the bag.

“Remember, he’s an indoor cat, now! He got into too many fights when he was younger,” Paola warns you as you’re walking out the door.

Your heart squeezes. She may be sarcastic and tough on the outside, but your friend really is tenderhearted when it comes down to it. You step forward and let her wrap her arms around you in a hug you’re unable to return, burdened as you are with a cat carrier and an overflowing tote bag.

“Thank you, Paola. You’re a good friend!”

“Okay,” she says, uncomfortable with this turn for the mushy. “Scram!”

***

You’re struggling to walk while balancing the heavy cat carrier and supply bag. At one point you have to stop to haul the bag farther up your shoulder and you worry that the straining handles will break before you reach your apartment. You’re so preoccupied with adjusting the straps and whispering reassurances to Tigre who is meowing like he’s being tortured–that you don’t notice the SUV marked _Policia_ gliding to a stop next to you until the driver calls out. 

“Señorita, do you want a ride back to your apartment?” it’s Officer Valdez, one of Carrillo’s men. You’ve seen him around the office quite a bit although you’ve never really talked. He’s looking at you with kind benevolence but you can’t help the thought that pops into your head. He would have followed Carrillo’s orders and abducted you just like the others did. Does he know everything that happened? Does he think you’re a traitor? You’re caught in this negative thought spiral as the man steps out of the vehicle and comes toward you, slipping the bag from your shoulder. “Hop in. I’ll have you home in no time.”

You sit rigidly in the passenger seat, Tigre balanced in his carrier on your lap. You glance over at Valdez from the corner of your eye. He’s humming and smiling vaguely as he drives. Seeming carefree.

“Cute cat,” he remarks, indicating Tigre who is still bawling like he’s being murdered.

“Thanks,” you laugh nervously. You’re already pulling up outside your apartment. 

“You need help inside?” he asks, reaching for the tote bag.

“No!” you cry, grabbing the bag before he can take it. Your mind flashes back to the splintered door, rough hands grabbing you and pulling you out of your home in the night. “I-I’ll manage. Thanks again.”

He’s looking at you with concern now, but he doesn’t comment. As you’re about to close the car door you turn and, not quite meeting his eyes say, “Um…would you tell the Colonel–um, actually never mind. Thanks!”

You slam the door and skip up the steps, rushing through the door and into the sanctuary of your apartment. You don’t even know what you were going to say. You just felt the overwhelming desire to reach out to Horacio. But you’re too cowardly to do it directly.

***

Carrillo sits behind his desk, looking down at the framed photograph cradled in his hands. It’s a picture of you and Paola on a horseback riding trip you took together a few years back. You’d put in one of the gaudy frames you love so much–horse shoe shaped and covered in glitter. He traces the lines of your smiling face and feels his own lips lift in a ghost of a smile. He swiped the picture off of your desk earlier–needing the comfort of something that belongs to you, something untouched by the damage he’s caused.

Javi barges in without a knock and Carrillo hastily turns the frame face down on his desk. The DEA agent arches an eyebrow as he sinks into a chair. Not much escapes this man’s attention. Carrillo stares back at him, his face carved in stone. They both know what happened last night. Javi’s jaw ticks and his eyes are flat and dangerous.

“Where are you with La Quica?” he asks.

Carrillo considers shutting him out, refusing to answer. But he doesn’t want to permanently damage his professional relationship with Peña. 

“Close. I’ll have him later today,” he answers in clipped words. “I’ll finish him today.”

“You need back up?” Javier asks. His expression hasn’t warmed one degree.

“Nope.”

Javier nods absently, his eyes lowering to focus on the frame sitting between them. He reaches out and snags it before Carrillo can stop him. Carrillo growls in annoyance as Javi turns the frame over in his hands and looks down at the picture of you.

“You know…” he says at length, choosing his words carefully. “You may be finishing things with Quica today. But you need to think about what you’re going to do with Y/N. She deserves to hear from you.”

Carrillo feels a wave of shame wash over him at the other man’s words. He should not need to be scolded into doing the right thing by his lover. But…but he doesn’t know how to come back from what he’s done.

Javi reads Carrillo’s thoughts and goes on, “Don’t get me wrong, you have a lot to atone for with her, but–and It’s totally not my place to say this, but you two idiots would never even have gotten together if it weren’t for me so, what the hell–she still loves you, dumbass.”

Carrillo takes a deep breath, reaching out to take the picture back from Javier before he answers, “I’ll make it right. I just need to do this one thing first.”

***

Carrillo takes La Quica to a secluded old factory building on the outskirts of town. The little shit is talkative, impudent, even when he’s kneeling in cuffs at Carrillo’s feet. He thinks about drawing it out, making someone else suffer physically the way he’s suffering emotionally. But then he’d have to keep listening to the man’s gloating lies. Bragging about how you’d begged Quica to touch you. How you wanted to be fucked by a real man.

So he settles for pulverizing the sicario’s face with the grip of his gun. It’s messy and chaotic. By the end he’s covered in blood and La Quica is barely recognizable. When he stalks out of the building, Trujillo’s eyes widen at his blood stained appearance. Carrillo gives him instructions on disposing of the body. For once this isn’t about sending a message. This is personal.

***

Carrillo spends an hour in the shower after he gets home. Watching the blood flow over his wet body and run down the drain. He stands under the spray long after he’s clean, shaking and staring at his hands. Hands that have killed. Hands that have tortured. If he were a better man he’d never touch you with these hands again.

When he pulls up outside your apartment later that night he’s wearing fresh clothing and he’s washed the blood from his hands and face, but he still feels tainted. He’d stupidly thought that killing Quica would somehow ease the weight of his guilt but deep down he knows the only way to do that is to talk to you. He’ll never feel ready for this but every time he thinks about starting the car and driving away he pictures your face–stricken, tearful, lost–as you fell into Javier’s arms and…he just can’t leave you again.

***

Tigre has only been home a few hours and he’s already made himself master of your domain. He’s supervising you opening a can of tuna when you hear a knock at your door and feel your spine stiffen automatically. The cat seems to pick up on your anxiety because he gives a little meow and puts a delicate paw up on your leg in response. You can’t help but smile at his antics.

“Are you a guard-cat, Tigre?” you murmur, shuffling toward the door and opening it a crack to peek outside. 

Horacio stands on your doorstep. 

This sudden appearance after so many weeks takes your breath away. You’ve been longing to see him but at the same time afraid of what it would mean to finally be confronted with your lover again. Now here he is looking at you with those soft, deep brown eyes that have always and will always melt your heart and for a second you feel the old stirring of butterflies in your stomach. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, a tight t-shirt that hugs his muscled physique and crisp blue jeans. His hands are loose at his sides and he looks…open and vulnerable and afraid. 

He clears his throat nervously and his words are stilted, “Will you let me inside, Y/N?”

It’s a simple question but it holds more than one meaning. Will you let him inside? Into the home he desecrated with his mistrust? Will you let him in again after he thought the worst of you? After he betrayed you? Will you? Can you?

He looks back at you and you see the hope in his glassy eyes, in his parted lips, in the way he seems to hover there, afraid to make a move and break the sanctity of this moment. 

You take a shaky breath and open the door.

“Come in, Horacio.”

Horacio steps inside, tiptoeing like he’s walking on lava. He’s burdened with the memory of his last time in your apartment, when he’d been the invader, the betrayer. He looks around. Nothing’s changed. Your couch is still stacked with bright, hand-knit blankets. Your gaudy knick knacks and souvenirs still cover every surface. It might be comforting, how much this place feels like you, if he didn’t feel like his presence was a poison. 

You gesture to the couch, “Sit down. Do you–do you want some tea? Or coffee?”

Horacio takes a seat, but before he can respond Tigre comes bounding out of the kitchen and leaps up onto his lap. Horacio flinches and looks up at you with a startled expression as the orange cat walks in circles before settling on his legs. You have to laugh.

“You…you got a cat?” Horacio sounds dumb struck. Like–like he’s shocked to find that something in your life has changed since you’ve been apart.

You smile and sit down next to him on the couch, letting your leg brush against his. _Who are you kidding?_

“Yeah,” you answer. “I got him today from my friend Paola down the street. I told you about her–she runs the cat rescue?”

Horacio lets his large hand delicately light in the cat’s fur, stroking him behind the ears. Tigre rewards him with a deep purr. He is infinitely gentle with this little creature who belongs to you. He never wants you to see his other side again. His mind flashes back to several hours before. When he’d beaten a man to death. A shiver runs down his spine.

He looks up at you and his voice is thick with emotion as he says your name, “I never wanted to hurt you. I–I–I’m so sorry, mi amor.”

His eyes spill over with tears and he grimaces as a sob escapes his throat. You whimper in sympathy, sitting frozen in place as your lover falls to pieces before your eyes. You’ve never seen him undone like this before. He’s always seemed stoic and untouchable. Watching him like this breaks your heart but you need to make yourself heard before you…surrender to him once more.

Your own voice shakes as tears fall from your eyes, “Horacio, you did want to hurt me. When you thought I’d betrayed you. You wanted me to feel…f-fear and hurt. I know it.”

Your words are sharp knives to Horacio’s soul and he feels the truth of them in his bones; it drowns him in shame. He falls against you, burying his face in your shoulder, not caring how desperate and needy he is. Tigre’s had enough of this and leaps away.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness, mi amor,” he whispers into our arm, keeping his face pressed to your shoulder, unable to meet your gaze. “And I don’t know if I can ever make it up to you. But–but…I’ve never l-loved anyone else, Y/N. It’s only you. And if I ruined it…I can’t–”

He trails off and you find yourself shushing him, bringing a hand up to cradle his head against you and rocking gently back and forth. For weeks you’ve felt broken and weak. Like you’d been used and discarded. But now you feel strong. It’s in your power to end this. One way or another. At your say so Horacio will leave, accepting the burden of heartbreak for the rest of his life. And you? You think about the afternoon you spent with Paola. And the dinner at Connie and Steve’s. Laughter, friendship, normalcy. You would be okay. Eventually. 

“Shhh, mi amor,” you whisper into Horacio’s ear, bending down to lay a kiss on his stubbled cheek, “Don’t cry.”

He settles against you, laying with his head on your chest and fisting his hands in your t-shirt. His breathing evens out and you just lay there, reacquainting yourselves with the feel of each other’s bodies. A little while later you take his hand, standing him up and leading him into your bedroom. Horacio follows without a word. The moment feels delicate to him, like if he utters a sound it will shatter into a million pieces. Maybe it’s Horacio who would shatter. He shudders as he steps over the threshold into your room, recalling his guilt at violating your space all those weeks before. You shut the door, sealing him inside with you. For better or worse. 

Horacio stands immobile in the center of the room, watching you approach him, eyes locked to yours with an intensity of longing you’ve rarely seen from this man. You stop when you’re only inches away from him, craning your neck to keep eye contact but not moving to touch him. For a moment you’re both frozen, unable to breach the distance that’s grown between you. To touch him–to love him–after everything that’s happened–it feels unobtainable and miraculous at the same time. You’re the one to move first. You reach out and take the hem of Horacio’s shirt, lifting it and pulling it over his head. He raises his arms to accommodate you but makes no further move. He just stands still and lets you do what you need to do. 

Horacio’s body is like a love letter from God. He embodies every scintillating archetype of masculinity: power, strength, protection, violence. Yes, violence. Horacio’s toned muscles, his broad shoulders, his large capable hands. They are all tools of his trade. They make him a weapon against his enemies and a fierce protector of those he loves. You let your eyes roam greedily as you whisper, “Tell me you love me again.”

A sharp, shaky intake of breath, “I love you.”

You place your hands on his strong shoulders and use them as leverage to get up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his soft lips. He still hasn’t moved to touch you. His hands are motionless at his sides even as he responds to the kiss, parting his lips and flicking his tongue out to meet yours. He moans low in his throat. You let your hands drop to the waist of his pants and start working at his belt buckle.

“Can I–” he stops himself short, afraid to break the spell that’s led–somehow– to your forgiveness.

You look up at him, catching his cheek against your hand and forcing him to meet your eyes, “What, Horacio?”

He takes a steadying breath, “Can I touch you?”

For a moment you can’t speak. Horacio is watching you like a starving man at a buffet but he hasn’t made a move to put his hands on you. There were days after your lovemaking when you couldn’t walk right, when your hips were painted with bruises in the shapes of his fingers. This meekness is born of his guilt and what he assumes is required for atonement. You’re…deeply moved. But more than anything you want your lover’s touch. You take his hands in yours and slide them under the hem of your t-shirt, moving them up to cup your breasts through your cotton bra.

“I want you to touch me, Horacio,” you breathe, panting as he gently squeezes his fingers over your breasts, “I need you to touch me.”

Horacio pulls your shirt off, then your bra. His hands roam over your back, your stomach, your breasts, your neck. He’s recharting the terrain of your body with gentle, barely there strokes of his fingers. He pulls you up against him, mashing your breasts into his chest and you’re reminded of your lover’s usual, forceful style. He leans down and whispers into your ear with a voice that’s rough and fragile, “I killed him, mi amor.”

Your breath stutters in your throat and you pull back to look into his eyes, “What?”

He stares back at you with eyes darkened with lust and need. 

“I killed La Quica. I killed him with these hands,” he says, bringing them up to gently cup your face and card through your hair. You can feel him tremble against you and his lips quiver.

“Good,” you say finally, your voice low and fierce. You reach down to finish unbuttoning his pants and push them down in a rough motion. “Good.”

You fall into your unmade bed and Horacio takes you slowly, with agonizing care. He keeps you cradled in his arms the whole time, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked together. He lays soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids, all while thrusting into you with infinite patience and care. By the end you’re both crying with the need for release as well as your emotions. When you can’t take it anymore, Horacio finally increases his pace, rocking into you rapidly as his hands fall down to clasp your thighs, pressing them back so he can penetrate you deeper. You reach up and drag your fingers over his chest, circling his hard nipples, eliciting a tortured whimper from him. When you finally come he follows you soon after, his cock twitching inside you as he fills you. 

Horacio pulls out of you slowly, letting you adjust as he leaves you. You let out a long sigh at the sudden loss. He settles down at your side and you turn to face him, a soft, contented smile on your lips. He’s watching you with a look of wonder on his face. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, gathering you against his chest and pressing his lips to the top of your head.

You let out a little laugh, “You’re welcome?”

His words are muffled against your hair, “I mean…thank you for…for taking me back. I’m yours now, Y/N. Completely. If I ever betray you again I’ll gladly let you kill me.”

You pull away and shake your head at him in exasperation, craning your neck so you can press your lips to the angel’s kiss on his shoulder, “It’s a deal.”


End file.
